Bond of Fire Read online

  “You answered the questions, did you not?” His eyes lingered on her mouth.

  “True, but…” Somehow she couldn’t readily assemble her words into sentences. Perhaps if they stepped into one of the small alcoves in the labyrinth or found the center quickly. If they reached it before the other couples, surely they could steal a kiss or two.

  He yanked himself away, seeming to breathe a little faster.

  She frowned slightly. Surely she was starting to have an effect. All she had to do was continue to stay close…

  “Very detailed questions they were, too.” His voice seemed slightly breathless. “The one comparing the results of electrical ignition to lighting it with a standard slow match.” He shook his head. “None of that was in your husband’s paper.”

  “That was my specialty.” Despite her immediate goals, she beamed at the intellectual interest in his eyes. “Monsieur le marquis thought fire was old-fashioned so he wasn’t interested in it, unlike electricity. I did all of the experimentation with slow matches.”

  “As well as laying powder trails…” Jean-Marie mused. He turned her hand over. “My deepest congratulations, madame. You are a very brave woman.”

  His thumb rubbed the inside of her wrist for a moment before he kissed it. The warmth of his lips, the slight brush with his strong teeth, all combined to send an electric shock jolting through her.

  Their gazes met. She was wide-eyed, breathing too fast—and he looked as unsettled.

  He all but dropped her hand before returning it to the previous very proper position on his arm. She flexed her fingers slightly, testing the strength of his muscles—and her own self-discipline.

  A moment passed before they began walking again. They rounded one more corner—and stopped in their tracks.

  Hélène took a second, long incredulous look at the labyrinth’s center. An octagon, it held the requisite marble statue, in this case, an obelisk rising from a smoothly carved rose granite block of shoulder height to most men. An equally traditional marble bench stood in the center. The occupants of the bench were, however, extremely untraditional.

  The vicomte de Saint-Gabriel—whom she’d always considered a foolish young cavalryman—was seated on the bench facing them, his head thrown back, his breeches around his ankles, and an expression of the utmost rapture upon his face. His coat was scattered across the grass, his shirt spread across his chest, and one arm free.

  Mademoiselle Perez sat beside and behind him, skillfully milking his cock like a dairymaid, and—drinking?—from his neck where he arched it over her arm, her cheeks hollowing and her throat muscles moving in unison with her hand. Echoed by his shuddering groans of delight.

  A pencil-thin line of crimson slowly trickled over his collarbone and down his chest to his nipple.

  Hélène could not believe her eyes. And yet she could not deny them.

  A vampire? Impossible.

  Hélène shrieked her denial, as scientific reasoning utterly failed her.

  St. Just clamped his hand over her mouth and stepped behind her, pulling her against him to control her with his body.

  Mademoiselle Perez promptly stopped and lifted her head, triumph flitting across her face. “Oh dear, what a surprise,” she said mendaciously.

  “Shut up and help me clean up this mess,” St. Just hissed. “If Don Rodrigo finds her here…”

  “Why should I protect her?” Mademoiselle Perez spat, neatly expressing her low opinion of Hélène.

  Voices were raised in the distance, muffled by the tall hedges.

  Saint-Gabriel moaned and nuzzled Mademoiselle Perez, clearly seeking more of what had been denied him. Blood dripped slowly from his throat.

  Hélène struggled desperately against St. Just. Mon Dieu, what was happening here? If she ran or screamed or fainted or…

  Monsieur Perez ran into the enclosed space, hand clapped to his sword, and cast an all-encompassing look around. Hélène shivered when his icy gaze rested on her.

  “Don Rodrigo,” Mademoiselle Perez whined.

  “Is Saint-Gabriel your creature?”

  “Of course, but—”

  “Silencio, Sara. Say nothing more until we are alone.” Hélène did not blame her for flinching at his tone.

  “Saint-Gabriel.” The young soldier leaped to his feet, in response to an officer’s sharp summons, his lust-dulled eyes clearing a bit. “The only thing saving your life is your blood bond with Mademoiselle Perez. Pull up your breeches and leave, taking your clothes with you. Do not be seen or suspected by anyone until you are completely recovered. You will never discuss any aspect of this incident with anyone. Understand?”

  “Oui, monsieur.” Saint-Gabriel bowed, managing to look obedient and aristocratic despite his disheveled condition. He disappeared an instant later between two files of boxwood, clutching his clothes.

  St. Just’s hand still had not relaxed over Hélène’s mouth. Breathing was difficult, but not as much of an effort as believing any of these events.

  Monsieur Perez looked back at Mademoiselle Perez, his features harsher than if they’d been carved in stone.

  “If you had not guaranteed he would not be harmed by giving you his blood regularly, Sara, that boy would be dead now. You should not have used him as bait for this trap.”

  “Wh-what trap?” She came to her feet, straightening her clothes like a bourgeois matron. “I was only sitting here, feeding on a strong young man, as is my right since Jean-Marie denies me.”

  St. Just growled, deep and low. His body seemed to vibrate with rage.

  “Why here? Why not in your room, where you are guaranteed privacy?” Monsieur Perez stalked the woman. She took a step back and another and another until the obelisk blocked her.

  “No, you had to have him here, didn’t you?” St. Just accused her. “Knowing I’d be the first to find the labyrinth’s center, since I can’t resist a puzzle even when I have a beautiful woman on my arm. A lovely lady whom you hate and fear.”

  “What of it?” Her face twisted between fear and rage, and she glanced rapidly from one man to the other. “What of it? She is young, and you cannot stop looking at her, no matter how much blood I drink to become more vibrant. Why wouldn’t I want to make her stumble and fall?”

  “I will kill you for this,” St. Just snarled and moved toward her, his hand falling away from Hélène’s mouth.

  “You’re a vampire,” Hélène whispered. “A bloodsucking vampire.”

  “Damn you! Damn you, Sara!” Jean-Marie cursed. “Now you’ve signed her death warrant, since she’s admitted vampiros exist.”

  “Madre de Dios, Sara, are you so jealous that you must destroy an innocent?” Monsieur Perez’s voice was etched in grief. “Do you not remember the agony of losing your own innocence?”

  “I saved your life many times when we were prisoners in The Syrian’s dungeon. How can I forget those days—unless you do?”

  Monsieur Perez flung up a hand in acknowledgment, his eyes suddenly decades older.

  Hélène squirmed, trying to duck out of St. Just’s hold and run for the château, while the others were arguing. His arms tightened ruthlessly hard around her until she gasped.

  Don Rodrigo turned to face her and St. Just, his expression sober as an executioner’s.

  “There is no need to invoke vampiro custom against her,” St. Just said, his voice’s calm agonizingly different from how his fingers gripped her wrists.

  Vampiro customs? But if they would help her in this hour of need, Hélène prayed for his success.

  “How else can we protect Sara, as you’ve sworn to do?” Monsieur Perez countered, his dark eyes now once again coldly considering Hélène. “She knows Sara is a vampiro and will probably tell others, making her a threat to all of us should she send a mob into a panic.”

  How could he speak so calmly about killing her? Why wasn’t anyone else coming to help? Admittedly, this was the most difficult labyrinth in Provence, but even so!

  “You are
reading too much into this,” St. Just argued. “La marquise is a logical woman. Even so, it’s unlikely her few words could cause a mob to form in the streets.”

  “Everywhere you look, France is sliding into chaos, mi hermano.” Don Rodrigo spread his hands in disgust. “Our safety, especially Sara’s, argues la marquise d’Agelet can never be allowed to talk. Even if it means killing her.”

  Hélène’s knees melted. She managed to hold herself erect and somehow keep breathing.

  “No,” St. Just said flatly. “If you want to kill her, you’ll have to come through me.”

  “Jean-Marie!” Mademoiselle Perez gasped, her hand flying to her throat.

  But did St. Just speak from love or honor? Hélène was very much afraid only honor inspired his words. But no matter what his motivations were, he was her sole protector.

  “You have seen vampiros die because prosaicos learned of them. You have seen Señorita Perez cowering and half-dead from fear, while hiding from riots. You swore to protect her, mi hermano. Will you risk her life because of a woman’s loose tongue?” Monsieur Perez’s rich voice offered the question like a duellist’s sword, gleaming with sharp edges.

  God help her, St. Just hesitated.

  Hélène shuddered and prayed she’d live another five minutes. She entered the fray on her own behalf, even though she didn’t know all the stakes or the weapons.

  “I would never say a word,” she insisted, staring at the man whose harsh features had shifted not at all while he discussed her death.

  “Never is a very long time, madame,” Monsieur Perez pointed out, as calmly as though they discussed Voltaire. “Even if it meant saving your mother’s life? Or your sister’s? What then?”

  She closed the mouth she’d opened to hotly deny his reasoning. He was entirely correct: She’d sell anyone and everyone here to rescue her little sister or her mother.

  His lips curved into a bitter, mirthless smile. He bowed slightly, the winning fencer accepting the loser’s capitulation.

  “You can’t negotiate with her about it!” Mademoiselle Perez interjected. “She is only a prosaica and has no rights in this.”

  “Sara, be still!” Monsieur Perez shot back. “You trapped her into this, thereby losing any say in the matter. I can choose to mete out any justice I please, as a vampiro mayor.”

  Hélène blinked, not understanding the logic. She didn’t question it, either, since she didn’t trust Mademoiselle Perez’s intentions for her future.

  “You could wipe her memories of this place,” St. Just suggested.

  Erase her memories? What kind of demon could do that?

  “I can read your thoughts very easily. Shall I prove it?” Monsieur Perez’s bittersweet gaze dwelt on hers, ancient and unfathomable.

  She shrugged as haughtily as possible, unwilling to admit anything even without words.

  “What shall I say that is not too embarrassing for you, in front of these others?” he mused, holding her eyes with his.

  She frowned but refused to draw back.

  “You’ve been slightly concerned about whether your heel might catch on the worn edge of the carpet in your boudoir.”

  She stared at him incredulously. He couldn’t possibly have seen the small tear. Could he really see inside her head? And if so, how horrible! Would she ever have any privacy again?

  “Do you wish me to detail where it is located?”

  “No, certainly not. That won’t be necessary,” she stammered quickly.

  He bowed without a trace of mockery, enraging her. “The king will catch and punish you if you harm me,” she snapped, blustering to cover her distrust.

  “Indeed, madame?” Don Rodrigo raised an eyebrow. “Please be so good as to explain to me how you will accomplish this miraculous intervention—when none of your fellow guests have yet sounded the alarm or come to investigate your shrieks.”

  She stomped her foot in pure frustration. St. Just touched her hand lightly, a subtle gesture of warning.

  She pursed her lips, tapped her toe, and contented herself by visibly fuming.

  “I will not permit you to kill her,” St. Just reiterated, squaring his shoulders.

  Don Rodrigo arched an eyebrow, clearly surprised. “You cannot stop me.”

  “You do not wish to murder a defenseless woman.”

  For the first time, she saw the big man flinch, but he rallied quickly. “I will, if I deem it necessary to protect Sara. I have done far worse than that.”

  “I won’t tell anyone,” Hélène repeated desperately, clutching St. Just’s arm. “I swear by Our Lady.”

  The hooded dark gaze shifted to her.

  She held her breath, terrified that she was closer to death now than when she’d lit gunpowder hour after hour.

  “Enforce her vow,” St. Just suggested abruptly. “You have the strength and the skill to do so. Set a compulsion in her head that she can never speak of tonight—except to the three of us here. We’ll be able to learn if anyone’s been pressing her to learn about it.”

  A compulsion? Have Monsieur Perez walk through her head, with Mademoiselle Perez to enforce it? But if it kept her alive, could she argue?

  “I won’t tell anyone, ever—but I’d permit you to lock my tongue on the subject.” She managed a polite smile, wishing she could fry him like a capon.

  Monsieur Perez studied her, his expression as detached as any butcher. He finally nodded.

  “Very well. Be aware, madame, that the ban applies to all forms of communication and is enforced by your own body. If you believe you have broken it, then you will die without any of us having to find you or kill you.”

  “What if another vampiro speaks to her? She might need to be able to argue freely against him.” Jean-Marie was poised lightly on his feet, as warily as if he fenced with a great master. “Even her prosaica sense of smell would instinctively recognize a vampiro now.”

  How many more vampiros were there? Hordes—or just a few, each more deadly than the last? Nom de dieu, which alternative was worse?

  “Very well—but only if that vampiro first speaks of vampiros to her.” Monsieur Perez glanced at his sister. “Are you ready to leave, Sara?”

  “She’d look better in her grave—”

  “Sara…” warned Monsieur Perez.

  She rolled her eyes. “Yes, of course, I’m ready—but you’ll both regret this day’s work.”

  “Is that it?” Hélène choked. “Don’t you have to do something more…” She waved her hands, at a loss for words. Tears welled up in her eyes again, surely due only to exhaustion.

  “Visible? Emphatic?” He lifted an arrogant eyebrow. “No. As your escort said, I have the skill to do whatever I wish inside your skull. You’ve already been limited, madame, and may only discuss tonight with the three of us.”

  Hélène turned and buried her face in St. Just’s chest, shuddering, her knees buckling under her. More than anything else in the world, she never wanted to think about this afternoon’s events again.

  He choked, wrapped his arm around her waist, and half-carried, half-walked her out of the labyrinth.

  THREE

  By following the hedges of the labyrinth, the herb garden, and finally the rose garden, they managed to reach the château unseen by any guests. The only servants they saw immediately behaved as if a fainting woman upheld by a man was so normal as to cause no notice, thus bearing out the demesne’s licentious reputation.

  He stopped at the guest wing and shifted his grip, preparing to free her. God knows holding her like this was dangerous to his heart, as well as damned improper.

  Her grip instantly tightened on him ferociously. “Non! Do not release me! You are my only defender!”

  His chest swelled with pride and something more personal, something he dared not look at too closely. He was sworn to protect Sara, and he could not live without her. While he hadn’t warmed Sara’s bed once he’d learned how cruelly she’d tricked him, he also hadn’t been a monk. But he’d neve
r dared let himself dream of the softer emotions with a woman, of doting fondness, soft glances, and passion that could last beyond the loved one’s presence. Doing so would doom him—and possibly the lady—to hell on earth.

  He glanced down at her. The tears on her face and her quivering lip sent a pang shooting through his heart. Poor darling, she was trying so hard to be brave. She’d had far too much to endure tonight—a vampiro mayor ready to kill her?

  Jean-Marie shook his head, wondering if he’d ever completely understand his friend. Rodrigo’s first instincts were always to protect women, but equally ferocious was the need to defend those under his care.

  “Would you like me to carry you to your room?”

  She nodded quickly, her green eyes enormous, and laid her head back against his shoulder. Trustingly, dammit.

  “Left,” she murmured at the top of the broad marble staircase, her flowered silk skirts floating over his arms.

  He would be a gentleman and not think about her exquisitely embroidered white petticoat framed so enchantingly—and fashionably—in front. Most importantly, he would not look down to see if her fragile white fichu, transparent enough to display her dress’s bright flowers, also permitted a glimpse of her bosom.

  He spun on his heel, cursing himself as ten times an idiot. He was committed elsewhere, mind and body. Hélène d’Agelet deserved far better than a man like him.

  Her delicate fingers brushed the nape of his neck, under his hair, and her breath brushed his cheek.

  His heart slammed against his ribs, sending shards of something stronger and sweeter than lust lancing through his flesh. Its force made his lungs seize, and he broke stride. “Madame…” he muttered, scarcely able to think.

  “Turn left again. My room is at the end of the hall.”

  Merde, she was caressing his neck, even though her ribs were still shaking from withheld sobs. His chest was tight, his blood running hotter and faster.

  “Madame.” He tried to restore some decorum to their situation.

  “Call me Hélène, s’il vous plait,” she murmured. “Surely we can move beyond formality to friendship, after surviving this afternoon’s disturbances together.”